


Seared

by AcceleratedStall



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Special Guest Appearance by Jack Frost, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, but only by like a month, food and cooking, multiple flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcceleratedStall/pseuds/AcceleratedStall
Summary: Fuuka, an April morning, and all the things she can and can't leave behind.
Relationships: Moriyama Natsuki & Yamagishi Fuuka
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Seared

“You really don’t have to write it all down,” Minako said, as she shrugged off her uniform jacket; standing next to the oven, the home economics classroom tended to heat up even if no one else was in it. “This is all stuff you’ll pick up with practice anyway.”

“No, I do,” Fuuka replied, scribbling in her notebook. “It sticks with me better this way. It’s like taking notes before a test.”

“Well, alright,” Minako conceded, moving over to the sink to clean out some measuring cups. The smudge of frosting on the tip of her nose had apparently escaped her notice. “Just don’t start calling me _sensei_. Hey, why are you looking at me like that?”

\- - -

Over time the papers have gotten stained all over, with everything from olive oil to coffee to cake batter; they’d warp back and forth a little when they dried, and don’t really stack properly anymore. The tips and instructions they contain might not be as vital as they were during the frantic baking sessions when they were written, but for some reason Fuuka still feels a little unprepared without them.

_Have all your utensils ready when you start so you don’t get distracted looking for them later_ , she reads out of the corner of one eye, setting a saucepan on the stove.

_Don’t make any substitutions until after you’ve done the recipe once already, or it specifically allows for them._

_Pay attention to the amount of water to use when cooking rice._

_Onions need to be cooked at low heat. Store them dry, but cut them under water._

Fuuka almost opens a package of ground pork - then stops herself and washes her hands first. A drop of water falls on the corner of her notes - she dabs carefully at it with a sleeve, praying not to smudge the ink.

It’s not a baking tip underneath when she lifts her wrist back off the page, but a little doodle - an octopus, with a ponytail and wearing hairpins that spelled out the letters “XXII.” The ink is in a different color from the rest of the notes - Minako had snuck it in one afternoon when Fuuka wasn’t looking. She must have found the nearby note funny - _Minako has lots of hands_.

At the time she regarded Minako with something resembling awe. Maybe she still does.

Fuuka lines up more ingredients on the kitchen counter in neat rows - there’s a lot to make this morning. Flour, eggs, soy sauce, vinegar, more eggs, peanut oil… At least, back here at home, she won’t be getting in anyone else’s way.

 _Start with whatever takes the longest,_ reads the note in front of her. That would probably be the cookies - but it feels wrong to begin with dessert.

\- - -

Shinjiro kept his distance, Fuuka could already see. He spoke little and revealed less; even when he lingered in the dorm lounge, he seemed to prefer standing off in a corner of the room away from the others - yet still watching them carefully. His hands almost always stayed in the pockets of his coat - not for warmth, but to leave one fewer opening.

So it was strange indeed to feel those hands, broad and rough, holding her own, aligning them just so as she struggled with a pile of freshly rinsed tomatoes. “It shouldn’t actually require any muscle - too much force will just scatter everything you’re trying to cut all over the counter,“ Shinjiro explained. “Just press down gently and let the knife do the work.” As he spoke he gave Fuuka’s knife hand a little push; sure enough, the tomato split in two neatly bisected pieces to either side of the blade.

“Think you can do it yourself?”

“I-“ her voice suddenly seemed much too loud, with Shinjiro looming just behind and above her- “…probably not.”

\- - -

There are no more hands guiding hers now. The knife falls just the same, neatly dicing an onion into little cubes that accumulate in a pile on one side of the cutting board; they join the pork in a bowl as Fuuka cracks open an egg. Next she takes the temperature of the oil on the stove with a thermometer sourced from a chemistry supply catalog; it’s nearly ready. There’s something inescapably awkward about the squishy, slimy feel of the ground pork against her fingers, but she shapes it into meatballs regardless. One by one she drops them into the oil, where they land with a bubbling hiss - the spatter doesn’t really daunt her anymore.

Next comes the sweet and sour sauce - it will need a separate pan. This could be a bit more difficult than the meatballs themselves, Fuuka worries - the recipe is less specific about timing, and instead demands that the mix reach a certain consistency. Not to mention that she has had some bad experiences with vinegar in the past.

Still, there’s enough ingredients left over for a second batch, so it’s alright to write the first off as a learning experience if it goes badly. Fuuka gingerly turns up the heat. The stove here is older and smaller than the one she used at the dorm kitchen, but low heat seems to be just a bit stronger - probably some reason for that, but it’s a mystery for another time.

It’s supposed to boil off slowly. Where are the bubbles? She drums her fingers on the counter. There's got to be something to do in the meantime - wait, there they go.

Before she can give the matter any more thought, her mother’s voice floats in from the kitchen door. “Something smells good!”

“Um-“ Fuuka starts, trying not to divert too much attention from the two pots on the stove in front of her. “-it’s for Natsuki this afternoon.”

“That so?” She barely breaks her stride, purse swinging off her elbow as she crosses the kitchen for the front door. “Well, just make sure to clean up the kitchen after.”

“Yes,” is all Fuuka can manage in response; the meatballs are now, if anything, _too_ ready, as she turns off… well that was probably the correct burner, anyway.

“Make dinner for us sometime!” her mother yells from the front room, abruptly cut off by the slam of the door.

_That would require either of you to come home from work before suppertime_ , Fuuka can’t bring herself to say aloud.

She dips a wooden spoon in the sauce mixture and stirs; it’s not clear if this is the consistency the recipe is looking for. So she ducks into the pantry and pulls out a bottle of the stuff the grocery store sells, to compare hers with. Minako would surely have a more elegant solution. But she isn’t Minako.

\- - -

“Yeah, I did pretty well. Thanks. Um… talk to you later, mom.” _Beep_. Fuuka closed her phone and slipped it back into her pocket; with the conversation complete, Minako narrowed the polite distance she had been keeping, and together they entered the home economics room.

“Your parents?” Minako asked, as she opened up the drawer with the whisks.

“They only call when exam scores are being announced,” Fuuka replied glumly.

The drawer stopped halfway open, and Minako turned her direction. “Don’t say that like it’s _your_ fault.”

“They ask about my grades, so I tell them. I- I feel like I have no idea what else to say to them.”

“I think we’re all kind of at a loss for words right now,” Minako sighed.

“Yes, I mean, but, even before that-“ Fuuka stammered, “It’s like there’s not a lot we share anymore.”

The two of them paused; a set of measuring spoons dangled listlessly off the end of Minako’s fingertips. “Did they ask about Shinjiro, though? It was on the news.” she asked, her voice a little uneven.

“I told them the whole school was frightened, and that from what I knew he seemed like a decent guy,” Fuuka replied.

“That’s not a lie.”

“No, but…” Fuuka trailed off for a moment. “When we’re done today, could I take some to box up and send home?”

Minako smiled, but shook her head. “Banana cupcakes don’t travel very well, unfortunately. We can come up with something that works next week.”

“Oh.” A little downcast, Fuuka gazed into an empty mixing bowl.

“You care enough to notice - that’s half the problem solved right there,” Minako tried to reassure her. “Next time your folks call, you’ll find something that works too.” She suddenly grabbed Fuuka’s arm. “Wait, wait, we’re using granulated sugar for this, not confectioner’s.”

Only half an hour later did it occur to Fuuka that asking an orphan for help dealing with her parents might have been a little awkward. Minako had thoughtfully avoided pointing that out.

\- - -

She still cares enough to notice, so she diverts a portion of her freshly made onigiri into a separate tray, which she wraps and leaves in the refrigerator. With a piece of scratch paper from the pad by the telephone, she writes “Try me!” and attaches the note to the tray. Hopefully her mother won’t be counting on a convenience-store breakfast tomorrow morning, and her father won’t be feeling that just knocking back a cup of coffee is “good enough.”

The rest of the onigiri join the meatballs and vegetables in the lunchbox. The sun might be getting higher outside the windows, but Fuuka doesn’t mind too much; she has made steady progress, and all that’s left to do now is the fun part - the cookies. She yanks a piece of wax paper off the roll - _yikes_ , that wasn’t a very clean tear - and lays it atop a metal baking sheet. Before she can forget, she scribbles down a note: _next time you need wax paper, just cut it with scissors_.

Butter slowly softens on the counter as the oven pre-heats and Fuuka sifts flour; there’s something vaguely comforting about the rhythm of it, how her hands move back and forth while the white powder forms a neat cone in the bowl. Other ingredients follow; a pinch of salt, a round little scoop of baking soda. The tempting aroma of vanilla extract belies just how little the recipe actually calls for; Fuuka delicately measures out just the tiniest spoonful.

Slowly, awkwardly, she brings all the pieces together, combining the contents of an assortment of measuring cups and small bowls into one larger one. A billowing cloud of sifted flour shakes loose into the air, but the rest _mostly_ stays where it’s supposed to. This recipe uses molasses instead of sugar - having made it once before, Fuuka can’t argue with the results, but it feels like she has all the time in the world to second-guess herself as the painfully slow process of pouring it into the bowl continues.

At last, she can bring out the electric mixer. With it in one hand, and a spatula in the other to contain any spillage, Fuuka watches the cookie dough gradually come together, to the extent that is the right word for the process. When her arms get tired, she switches off the mixer, props it against the side of the bowl, and pops a lump of dough in her mouth - it’s delicious.

\- - -

“You’re makin’ it kinda crowded in here, you know,” Shinjiro grumbled, but there was no real anger in his voice. A few days prior, Minako had somehow prevailed upon him to make dinner for the whole dorm, and in spite of the size of that task, Shinjiro had insisted on doing everything himself - except for the dessert. So as he stirred crepe batter, she fed ingredients into the mixing bowl, or went around its edges with a spatula to push excess material back in. Fuuka hovered between and behind the two of them, in an effort to learn… something. They were both better at this than she was.

“Sorry about the length of my arms,” Minako answered. Shinjiro didn’t respond. She lifted the spatula out of the bowl, rubbed a little batter off of it with her finger, and had a taste.

That got his attention. “Don’t do that,” he growled. “Raw eggs, you’ll get sick.” Seeing Minako apparently unsatisfied with that explanation, he continued. “‘sides that, it’s distracting. And unprofessional.”

“On the contrary,” she replied, “it’s our privilege and prerogative as the chefs to lick the bowl as much as we want.” Fuuka laughed.

\- - -

The oven door slams shut; Fuuka sets the timer. Why is she the only one left?

The problem with cooking in this kitchen is that she’s known it since before she could walk, so cleaning it up is thoughtless and rote; every pot and pan and spoon has its place, leaving only an empty space in her brain. She can’t answer the questions that fill the void, but neither can she stop asking them.

Juno’s eyes had pierced through earth, cloud, darkness - yet in the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Wasn’t there something she could have seen? Some hint, some warning?

But of course, there were plenty of those, Fuuka reminds herself one more time. Hushed, uncertain whispers between Ikutsuki and the seniors; Ken’s uncanny stare into the dark in the dorm lounge long after he was supposed to be sleeping; the way the talkative Minako was suddenly at a loss for words when Ryoji first introduced himself to her friends; a face far too pale for the February cold; all these Fuuka had watched without seeing. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t see, but now it falls to her to live.

When it finally arrives, the loud, intrusive buzz of the oven timer is a blessing.

-

Outside it’s the kind of sharply clear day that can only come after a storm blows through the night before; rich blue skies are mirrored perfectly in still puddles of water on the ground. Trees planted along the streets are in bloom, pinks and whites and yellows mixing with the bright green of fresh leaves. In spite of everything, Fuuka _has_ lived to see spring.

Carefully packed lunch boxes in hand, Fuuka weaves a familiar path towards the train station. The city, too, is alive, in a hundred parked bicycles and hastily built scaffoldings and blinking crossing lights. The blare of a car alarm may grate on her nerves, but it’s another thing that Fuuka helped save - they saved - _Minako_ saved.

The broad square in front of Iwatodai Station is finally clear of the construction work that went on most of the previous year, yet it never erased a jagged crack in the pavement at the near end of the taxi stand; a memento of the battle SEES fought here. Fuuka scans the fast-moving crowd moving up and down the escalators.

Right on time, Natsuki appears at the top of the stairs, looking out with that disinterested face everyone wears on the train, shrugging in a large-buttoned brown jacket. The change in her expression when she recognizes Fuuka is pulling back thick curtains on a sunny morning; more than enough to make the day worth it on its own. Natsuki dashes down the staircase and they share a hug.

“C’mon, it hasn’t been that long, has it?” she teases Fuuka.

“Can’t it just be good to see you?”

“‘Course it can. Hey, what’s that?” Natsuki asks.

“Ehehehe… I made lunch!” Fuuka holds it up proudly.

“Really? I thought we’d be eating at Wakatsu.”

“Oh, them? Some big-name food blog gave them a good review and they raised all their prices. So I thought…” Fuuka explains.

“No, it’s fine!” Natsuki interrupts. “I didn’t really have anything in mind.”

They fall in with the steady flow of passengers out of the station and back into the sun. Little strands of Natsuki’s hair catch the light.

“You lost some of your tan,” Fuuka observes idly as they wait for the streetlight to turn.

“Just winter. Don’t worry, I’ll get it back,” Natsuki answers. “Dad says he’ll get us to Hawaii this summer.”

“He’s doing better?” Fuuka replies hopefully.

“Yeah, he’s back at work now.”

“That’s good.”

The signal appears, and Fuuka follows behind Natsuki’s longer stride. “Want to stop at the manga cafe?” Fuuka asks.

“Mmm… better not,” Natsuki shrugs. “Did I ever tell you about the time I fell down that staircase?” She points at the spiral staircase up to the second level of the storefronts.

“You did?”

“It was raining and the steps were all slippery. Just bruises, but the old lady from Bookworms insisted that I come inside and have a cup of tea.”

“That does sound like her,” Fuuka smiles, but finds herself suddenly unable to continue the conversation. The last time she stepped into Bookworms, Bunkichi and Mitsuko offered her a bouquet of flowers, teardrops catching in the wrinkles around their eyes.

An entire block passes in silence, before Natsuki stops walking and asks, “You want to eat over there?” She gestures towards a park across the street.

“Oh! Um, sure.” Fuuka struggles to snap herself back to the present - the rasp of a passing motorbike’s engine, distant cheers from a children’s baseball game further away in the park, the faint texture of the crosswalk under her feet.

Natsuki selects a bench - under a tree, but dappled with sunlight rather than fully in shade - and they sit down.

“So how have you been?” Natsuki tries to get the conversation started again. “You said you were back at home, right?”

“Yeah…” Fuuka replies, but it’s all she can manage. Natsuki gives her a sidelong glance.

“I know that look,” Natsuki says after a pause. “That’s the look you have when something’s bothering you but you think it would be inconsiderate to tell me about it.”

Fuuka sighs. “I don’t know. I thought moving out of the dorm would make things feel more… definitive? But…”

Natsuki opens her half of the boxed lunch, but doesn’t begin eating; instead, she turns to face Fuuka, concern on her face.

“It’s only been what, a month?” _since Minako died_ , Natsuki leaves unsaid. “You shouldn’t feel like you need to be over it.”

“I know,” Fuuka answers, but she can’t muster up any conviction to go with the words. “Sorry, I didn’t want to be a downer.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Natsuki tries to assure her. “But…” she looks down at the lunch. “I’ve kinda been looking forward to tasting this for a few minutes now. Can I go ahead?”

“Yes, please do!”

-

Natsuki holds one of the rice balls up to her eye level, looking it over from multiple angles as she turns it around in her hand. “This is like, what do you call it, the ideal form of an onigiri,” she pronounces, then takes a bite.

Fuuka smiles, but swallows a lump of pork and vegetables before she answers. “They’re my specialty! Well, not really, but I practiced them a lot.”

“The pork meatballs were pretty good too,” Natsuki adds. To Fuuka, the sauce came out a little too far on the “sour” end of the sweet versus sour continuum, but if Natsuki is happy with it, there’s no reason to complain.

“Thanks so much! Oh, but the best is yet to come,” Fuuka promises, the vague pomposity of her words hopefully undercut by her smile. She lifts aside the tray holding her main dishes to reveal the freshly baked cookies. “Ta-da!”

Natsuki cracks up into laughter. “What’s with that presentation?” Even so, she reaches to take one. Fuuka feels an odd sense of anticipation as she takes one bite, then another, and chews. Once she’s done, Natsuki plucks a couple of crumbs that fell loose into her skirt, and licks them off her fingers.

“Do you like it?” Fuuka asks.

“Would I be picking up the crumbs if I didn’t like it?” Natsuki teases.

“Most people just take another one,” Fuuka teases her back in turn.

“How did you get the frosting so smooth? It’s like something from the cake shop.” Natsuki grabs another cookie.

“There’s a trick to it, Minako showed me. I was going to show her how a multimeter worked, to thank her.” Fuuka looks down at her shoes. “It’s just not fair.”

“It never is,” Natsuki replies.

They finish their cookies side-by-side in silence. Another cheer comes up from the youth baseball game at the other end of the park as a small boy runs the bases.

“You’re giving me that look again,” Natsuki says, but there’s less accusation in her voice than there is concern.

“Every day is a little different,” Fuuka begins quietly. “Sometimes, Minako and Shinjiro are all I can think about. Sometimes, they’re so far out of my mind that I go to bed scared that I’ll just _forget_ again. …I don’t know which is better.”

“I don’t think there really is a better or worse,” Natsuki says. She reaches an arm out across the top of the park bench behind Fuuka’s shoulders, not quite touching them. “Minako always had a smile for me when we passed one another in the hallways. I wish I’d known either of them better - maybe I’d have something more comforting to say.”

“Just what you’ve said now, being here - it’s more than enough,” Fuuka assures her.

“You’re too nice,” Natsuki sighs, deflating into the bench.

“I guess I’m not sure about that anymore. After all the effort they went through for me-“ and Natsuki has to know that Fuuka isn’t just talking about cooking lessons here- “I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t even know. It makes me feel like I’ve been… cold.”

Natsuki suddenly clasps Fuuka’s hand between hers. “Fuuka, I don’t think you could be cold if you _tried_. Listen - you didn’t have to make me this lunch. You didn’t have to try so hard to keep in touch after I had to move. You didn’t have to-“ she looks nearly ready to cry- “save my life.”

Fuuka’s eyes widen. “But you did. I don’t know how, and you don’t have to tell me,” Natsuki continues, “but I do know why. Empathy is nothing to feel guilty about. Please… you’re still a good person. You’ll be okay.”

Natsuki releases Fuuka’s hand, but she can still feel the warmth. A crow flies by with a rustling of wings, and Fuuka releases an unsteady breath.

“Too far?” Natsuki asks sheepishly. “I-“

“Not at all,” Fuuka answers with a shy smile.

They stack up the empty lunch boxes as neatly as they can; Natsuki brushes a few crumbs off her skirt as she stands up from the bench.

“Where do you want to go now?” Fuuka asks as she rises to her feet.

“Hmm… well I kinda miss the coffee you could get at the mall in Port Island. And… one other thing.” Natsuki trails off; Fuuka glances at her inquiringly.

“…this is so embarrassing.” Natsuki starts, her voice low and somewhat furtive. Fuuka is tempted to laugh, but holds it at a smile. “You know how the arcade there has a big crane machine up front?”

“Yeah, Game Panic? We could go there.”

“I… I could never get the prize I wanted, and I haven’t found it anywhere else. That little round snowman guy like you had on your bag at school. I tried like fifteen times,” she admits.

\- - -

Laden with groceries needed for that evening’s recipe, Minako and Fuuka only crossed Paulownia Mall to get back over to the monorail station. Or so Fuuka had thought, but Minako’s rapid stride suddenly came to a halt in front of her as she did a quick about-face.

“Hold these a sec?” Minako shoved her two shopping bags into Fuuka’s already-full hands.

“Wait!” Fuuka protested, but Minako was already in front of Game Panic. She dropped a coin into the slot for the crane game, then… rolled up her sleeves?

“Alright!” The crane arm sprung into motion.

“Do we have time for this?” Fuuka asked. “The cookbook said one hour…”

Eyes fixed on the pile of prizes inside the crane machine, Minako didn’t turn to Fuuka as she answered, “it’ll only be a second.”

The mechanical claw hissed, whirred, grabbed - but found nothing but air.

“At last, an opponent worthy of my skill,” Minako mused jokingly. Another coin in; the flashing colored lights of the arcade played off of her metal hairpins.

The claw came up empty again; undeterred, Minako submitted another 200 yen. Her presumed target, the Jack Frost plush doll, just flopped uselessly back into the pile.

“You’re not getting away from me that easily, Jack!” She paid for a fourth round.

“Do you really-“

“Of course! Just watch!” Minako interrupted.

Another failure, but still Minako wasn’t ready to give up, staring into the machine with the concentration of a monk. On the sixth attempt the claw folded into position around Jack Frost’s head, bore him aloft - but only for a mere second before he swayed loose and fell. Fuuka sighed at the continued defeat - but the little plush doll had just enough sideways momentum to tumble down the prize chute and into Minako’s eager grasp. “Yes!”

Breathlessly she turned back to Fuuka. “Okay, I can take those back now, thanks,” she offered, gesturing to half of the grocery bags in Fuuka’s hands. Fuuka extended an arm, relieved to feel the weight it held being removed - then surprised, when she felt the soft plush of the Jack Frost doll being pressed into her empty hand. “For you!”

\- - -

“Should probably get something to bring home to Mom and Dad. What do they sell at that antique shop, anyway?” Natsuki wonders aloud as they walk.

Fuuka loses her answer before it comes out, stepping to the side to avoid an incoming baby stroller. The spring weather must have brought everyone out - the mall is busy today, more so than usual. Inside Chagall, the queue to order doubles back across the store.

“I gotta use the restroom real quick, but you can get in line for the coffee,” Fuuka explains. “I’ll catch up to you in a minute.” She dashes over to Game Panic, fishing through her coin purse - she had definitely stashed a prize voucher in there at some point.

-

By the time Fuuka finds her again, Natsuki already has both coffees and is preparing to pour some cream into one of them, marked with her initials in black pen. Fuuka taps her on the shoulder.

“Where the heck have you been?” Natsuki exclaims.

Fuuka hands her the Jack Frost doll with a grin. “For you!”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, reader! Thank you for getting this far! I originally set out to write a fic where Fuuka did some good cooking, because she's shown to be intelligent, dedicated to practicing, and taught by skilled people - there's no reason she shouldn't improve. What I ended up with, however, was, uh, this, which kind of veers off in a different direction. More angst than I'm normally comfortable with, but the material calls for it. Probably.
> 
> Brought to you proudly by "Blood on the Tracks" and Tylenol.


End file.
